


The Monsters Within

by Heflex



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Action, Gen, Plot Twists, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heflex/pseuds/Heflex
Summary: Solitary and aching for revenge, Shadow seeks to find a weapon powerful enough to defeat the enemy that shattered the world.  But can he survive in a new world full of hateful men and monsters who oppose him at every turn?





	The Monsters Within

On that day, the world was changed forever...

He came from the west. Nobody wandered into Cerca from the west, not since the sundering. Trappers from the north came to buy and trade in the shantytowns that sprang up along the southern rim of the veldt, and on occasion, orphans from the tattered remains of Mobliz would arrive from the east to beg or sift through garbage heaps, but never from the west. 

The drifter glided through a gap in the warped wooden gates, deftly maneuvering around the jagged edges without snagging a single strand of his midnight black vestments.

A muscled shadow stalked silently at his heel, nose to the wind, continually testing, searching, and probing the pervasive scents of piss and fear for any signs of danger. Pale golden orbs surrounding crescent pupils flitted from building to slanted building; focusing on the faces that vanished behind shuttered windows and locked doors. The animal’s hackles rose like jagged obsidian peaks; its black lips pulled back, displaying razor-sharp teeth any predator would covet. The drifter smoothed the erect hair along the animals back with long strokes of his studded leather glove, and whispered calming words.

They passed a vacant inn, not sparing a second glance at the hand reaching to steady the "no vacancies" sign that hung askew in the blackened window, turning instead towards the tavern at the end of the street.

The Cactrot was known for its meticulously crafted ale, and business friendly atmosphere. A reputation it received from nothing more than being the last stop before entering the western grasslands of the veldt, a place nobody but the bravest hunters dared venture. In reality, the drink was two shakes away from pure pisswater, and the real business took place in the alley behind the Cactrot.

"The mutt'll have to wait outside," said the man behind the counter. The drifter ignored him and took a seat on the stool nearest the wall.

"I said," the skeletal man began.

"Ask him yourself," said the drifter in a disinterested voice; deep and monotone, like a bow, drawn across a single string on a cello.

Snorting, the barkeeper pitched forward on rickety legs, and came face to snout with a snarling maw. He tried to back away, but every move was accompanied by a guttural growl.

He froze, letting his stringy gray hair fall over his face. The general buzz in the room morphed into a tense silence. His gaze darted from the jaws in front of him to the cold, barely visible eyes behind the drifter’s ornate mask.

Silence hung a moment longer, then the drifter raised a hand into air and snapped. "Interceptor, down." Obediently, the animal sat back on his haunches, sank to the floor and rested his head on oversized paws.

"I'll take one of those," the drifter said, as if the importance of the previous exchange was equal to that of a partially eaten apple. The barkeeper, still bent at the waist, blinked several times before standing.

"Eh?"

The drifter motioned with his eyes to the wooden mug of ale warming on the table top. Following his gaze, the barkeeper blinked several more times, then pushed the amber liquid in front of him.

"That'll be two gold pieces," he said, annoyance returning to his voice. The eyes beneath the mask didn’t move as two coins dropped with a clang onto the table. The barkeeper sniffed; lip upturned in a half smile at the swindle. His brittle hand moved out and slid the coins across the uneven surface. In a blur of motion, the drifter covered his hand, grinding it into the tabletop until the man’s frail bones crackled like a boot through rotten wood. 

"One gold for the drink, another to tell me where to find a man named Tripp."

The barkeeper winced and shook his head. "Never heard." He cried out as the drifters studded glove pressed harder into his weathered skin. "I don’t know, I…"

He gasped in relief as the pressure abated, then lifted his gaze just in time to see two men approach the motionless figure in black. A haughty grin split across his weathered face as he slid the gold from the table into his pocket. He nodded at the men, then excused himself to attend matters on the opposite end of the bar.

"Couldn't help but hear you were looking for Tripp," said one of the men. The drifter tilted his head back, and took a long pull from his mug.

The two men exchanged glances, one of them shrugged.

“Talkin to you Blacky,” said the first man. They both laughed.

The second man reached out and flicked the drifters metal mask. “He’s talkin to you, black…uh,” his eyes rolled to the top of his head as if calculating the proper lift to mass ratio on a gas lifted airship transporting kibble for a squad of vector hounds. “Metal face,” he finished with a satisfied grin. The first man shook his head at him, then returned his focus to the stranger.

“Gunna say something, or you just gunna sit there?”

"Maybe he's muddled?"

The first man puffed out a mixture of air and spittle. "Muddled or no, Trip ain't interested in meeting with drifters or their filthy animals." Interceptor growled and lifted his head, but a gentle stroke of the drifter’s hand silenced and guided him back to the floor.

"Not unless they go through the correct process," said the second man, patting a thick bladed dirk at his side. He edged closer, eyeing the pouch of gold around the drifter’s waist, then rested an open palm on the countertop. The drifter set down his mug and sank deeper into his chair, more relaxed than defensive.

The two men shook their heads at one another. “Maybe he only talks to animals,” said the second man, his hand still resting on the counter like an expectant inn attendant waiting for a tip. The first man moved along the drifter’s other side, and stopped in front of a disinterested Interceptor. 

“Maybe he understands sign language,” said the first man. He lifted a heavy leather boot, and drove it hard into Interceptors side. The dog didn’t stir from its subservient position, save for a sharp exhalation on impact.

“Careful,” said the second man, “he might bite.” 

“These are two-inch-thick imp hide,” said the first man, jeering as he kicked into the dog’s side again. “More than enough protection from a little pup.” This time Interceptor let out a muffled whimper, but remained as unmoving as his master.

The man leaned in close to the drifter. “I’ll be safe, but I can’t say the same for you. Why don’t you stop ignorin us and give us a look in that pouch of yours?” 

As he said this, he drew a rusted thief’s knife from his belt. The blade curved lazily; thick at the tip, like a miniature scimitar, then tapered until it met the worn leather binding around the handle. He placed the knife onto the table, covered it with his hand, and waited. 

The drifter sat motionless for a moment longer before responding. The aging wooden chair creaked like an unoiled hinge as he rotated his body to face the man, fixing him with an emotionless stare. Another creak and the drifter returned to his original position.

His hand drifted under the silken strip of cloth hanging from his belt. The men nodded at each other, and licked their lips. The drifters hand rose to the table, but instead of a pouch full of gold, he placed a slender assassin’s blade reverently on the table in front of him, then lowered his hands back to his sides.

A breeze whispered through an open window, sweeping the warmth, and idle conversation away through a crack in the uneven doorway. The barkeeper took another step back, and wiped his face with a dirty dish rag.

Both men paused, confusion over the veiled threat quickly turning into anger.

"Kill'em," shouted the man on the right as he gripped the thief’s knife on the table. The drifters sash fluttered, exposing briefly an ornate scabbard on each hip. There was a hiss like the sound of quenched steel, followed by a fine red mist that bloomed delicately into the air. The drifter sat idle, as motionless as a statue carved from cold stone.

Both men attacked in unison, pressing the advantage of the pincer. The man on the left reached for the dirk on his hip. The man on the right twisted, intending to use the momentum to slide his knife from the table into the drifter’s chest. Both men stopped short, raising their handless stumps to eye level.

The man on the left gripped the haft of his arm as blood and comprehension flowed simultaneously. A hysterical cry left his lips. His eyes rolled back, then he crashed to the floor. The drifter remained seated; motionless, except for the glint of a blade disappearing back into concealment.

The remaining man stared dumbly at his stump, then down to the severed hand on the tabletop still gripping the knife. As fury replaced shock, he lifted his boot, extracted a finger blade with his remaining hand, and lunged.

The drifter’s movements were a blur. He spun from the chair, both knives appearing in his hands. Blue, and nearly transparent, the impossibly sharp blades sliced through the air with a barely audible whistle. He knocked aside the strike, and slashed upwards, all in the same fluid motion.

Momentum carried the man a few more steps before he stopped and looked down at the thin red line running from navel to neck.

Blood began to pool around the incision, then burst open like the waters of a loch. The man collapsed. Men and women alike pushed and shoved in a frantic rush to the exit. Within the shouts and screams another voice could be heard; discordant with the mass hysteria gripping the room.

An ex-empire soldier infused with esperial magic stood on a table against the far wall. A crimson ethereal light surrounded the soldier as he neared the end of the spell that would cause his target to erupt into flames.

The drifter snatched the assassin’s blade from the table. With a flick of his wrist the steel blade, balanced to a comical degree, flew across the room as naturally as a ship on water.

Soft light from the neglected hearth fire glinted weakly off the blade as it pinwheeled through the crowd before embedding itself in the center of the outstretched palm of the caster, pinning him to the wall.

“Where?” The drifter said, turning back to the barkeeper who was huddled against a row of drawers behind the counter. The man’s boney arms covered his head, and he shook like an errant quake spell. He looked into the eyes of the stranger; dark and piercing, as cold and lifeless as the ornate mask that covered his features, and answered in a quivering voice.

“Across from-” 

A flash of light cut him off. The drifters gloved hand shot out, gripping the thief’s knife, severed hand and all, and hurled it at the spell caster. The appendage caused an uneven flight, but his aim was never off. Blade and hand flashed by the face of a fleeing woman, summersaulted over the head of an elderly man, then pinned the casters second hand to the wall. His fiery aura faded, and he let out a scream of pain.

The drifter whipped his gaze back to the cowering barkeeper who needed no prompting. “The inn. Across from the inn, on the second floor.” The information was a shock. He expected the clue to take him to another town or city, just like the last time, and the time before that, all the way back to when he started his quest for vengeance, but the man he sought was here, in this town. 

The drifter inclined his head and turned to leave. He paused to drop a handful of gold coins into the remaining amputated hand that lay open, palm up on the tabletop, then took his leave of the Cactrot.

Outside, twilight clouds streaked with red hues fled the encroaching night. Raising a hand into the air, the drifter snapped once, and Interceptor rose from the floor, leaving a trail of bloody pawprints. 

Chapter 2

Tripp shifted on the high-backed couch, then settled into the matted mass of dark brown fur draped across its length, and eyed the strangely dressed drifter who stood in the doorway.

He adjusted the purple bandanas around his head and wrists in an attempt to stem to flow of sweat seeping to the surface. He shrugged, "you killed my best fighter, maimed Darius and the mage, have you come to take the head of the trench serpent as well?"

"To talk."

Trip coughed into a rag, leaving a bloody stain on the purple material. "You can leave us," he said, looking past the stranger to the hallway packed with angry thieves.

“But he killed Brutus,” came a heated voice from the hall. 

"And? If he wanted me dead, he'd do it with one guard as easily as 50." Trip said, wiping blood from his lips. The drifter took a step into the room, followed by a monstrous dog. He extended his foot behind him, and slammed the door on the onlookers.

"Drink?" Tripp said.

"Information."

"I can see we won't be exchanging pleasantries." He winced as he reached for a bottle and two cups. As he poured, the drifters gaze shifted to the massive skin covering the couch.

"Megalodoth?" 

Trip nodded, "you're familiar with the veldt?" He paused, and stared at the man behind the mask, as if the black and gold covering would suddenly dissolve into recognizable features. "Not many leave the safety of the towns anymore. The veldt is getting more dangerous by the day." He paused again, not taking his eyes off the master assassin. 

"What's your name?"

"My name is for sale to the highest bidder," he said, "but for now, Shadow will do."

"Shadow," Trip repeated in a soft crackling voice. "You've traveled the veldt, proven yourself a superior fighter, what could you possible want from me? And please take a seat." He grimaced as he passed the filled cup.

Shadow gestured to Trips leg, "Megalodoth?"

"Gorgimera."

Shadow narrowed his eyes. Even behind the mask, his incredulous look was obvious.

Trip rolled his eyes, "Leaf Bunnys... It was the entire pack, and they're deadly vicious," he added hastily. "We were on our way back from our hideout. Or should it say 'was' our hideout, before the world ended. We met little resistance, very few monsters on the way. Our numbers scared off the weaker predators. Only the bigger beasts: Chimeras, dragons, mandrakes, and the like dared come near." He held the rag to his mouth and coughed up more blood. "But that story has little relevance, what brings you to Cerca?"

Shadow reached into a pocket and produced a hand drawn picture of a sword.

"Oborozuki," Trip said in awe.

Shadow leaned forward in his chair, “you know of it? He could feel the cold murmur of his heart against his chest; the first sign in months of its continuing tenure as an internal organ.

Trip traced the rim of his cup, eyes downcast. After a long pause he asked, “Have you heard of the crimson robbers?” Shadow nodded his head and leaned even closer, gripping the arm rests hard enough to leave the imprints of his studded gloves on the hard wood. “Some of the older members of our guild, including myself, were once part of them. We amassed quite the collection of valuable and powerful items. Some by adventuring, others by theft, this sword was among the items we plundered.”

Shadow clenched and unclenched his fists. His eyes shone with something the people of Cerca were unaccustomed to. Hope. 

“Where?” Trip let his gaze drop again; this time he drummed his fingers on the empty wineglass.

“Now that’s where the problem lies,” he said, raising his head.

“Another dead end,” Shadow said in a deep whisper. His squeezed his eyes shut, and took several deep breaths. He relaxed his muscles, and slumped back into the chair. A smile encroached on one side of Trips mouth.

“Perhaps my story is more relevant than I thought. If you recall, I said our party was attacked on the way back.” Shadow flicked a dismissive hand in acknowledgement. “It’s because we didn’t have the numbers. In fact, we only had a quarter of the men we started out with.” Shadow tilted his head to the side.

Seeing he had the master assassin’s attention again, he continued, "I think we might be able to help each other. Oborozuki is still in the vault I'm sure if it."

"Your price?" Shadow said, snapping back to attention, and loosening the pouch of gold from his belt.

"No, it's not gold I want, but steel and stealth." 

"You want to hire me? To what end?"

"An escort. Your protection. I'm surrounded by amateurs, petty thugs, men who scrape an existence from shaking down travelers at roadside taverns," Trip said, reaching for another clean cloth. This time the coughing fit lasted several minutes. By the end his chest heaved, and he struggled for every breath.

Shadow waited patiently for him to calm his breathing. "Protection? he asked, "from what? A rival gang? Twinsythes? Toecutters? Gorgimeras?"

"All of the above. In our last attempt to reach the vault, we decorated the walls of the cave with Twinsythe Ichor, and we the staked heads of an oversized Gorgimera, all 5 of them, I severed them myself. And as for the rival gang, " he paused to refill his cup. "The latter took care of the former."

"Then why me? There’s plenty of swords for hire for less money, unless you're suggesting there's something more deadly than a full grown Gorgimera."

"Behemoths," Trip said in a hushed tone, each letter cutting the air like a large tooth saw.

"Anything else?"

Trip grimaced, in remembrance. "Something bigger, something even the behemoths won't challenge, something ancient and evil; awoken from hellish slumber during the sundering, when the great landmasses shifted."

Shadow sat for a moment then straightened his back and said, “Not going to happen.” Tripp raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Out of your league?”

“I’m not going to be a part of any team. It’s me and only me, or it’s not happening.” Interceptor raised his head and emitted a low growl. “We,” he corrected, “won’t be a part of any team.”

The pair sat in silence. Only the hypnotic tic of an unseen time piece broke their thoughts.

"There were sixty that set out, eighteen returned."

"Those losses aren't unheard of for an artifact expedition," Shadow cut in. Trip raised his head slowly; fear written as legibly as imperial law in his eyes.

"Not like this. Monsters and beasts kill for food, territory, defense, but this was different. Whatever's down there is no mere animal. It drags victims away, letting them scream for hours, sometimes days, forcing us deeper into the caves. Always a turn ahead, always leaving pieces of the unfortunate soul, a foot here, an ear there. Those who follow the screams never return.

When the passage to the vault was finally cleared of monsters and debris, we thought we were saved. And then it came. The only ones to see the monster as we fled the cave were those about to be eaten."

Trips eyes regained their focus, and he sat up straight.

"So," Shadow began, "I get you inside the vault safely, and you give me Oborozuki?"

"The choice is yours naturally. Obviously, I can't guarantee any of us will return, but that's my offer.”

The moment he had been waiting for was here. A tangible clue. The physical location of the blade that would fuel his revenge, not a local legend or some old man’s tale whispered in the backroom of a rundown tavern. Shadow chaffed at the idea of working with a team. The last time he broke his solitude he woke up with his mind and body in as many pieces as the scattered landmasses. The alternative, however; would be to search on his own, wandering the endless labyrinths of the thieves’ cave, dodging masochistic monsters. He wondered briefly if he could do it. It wouldn’t be the worst he’d ever endured.

His mind wandered. He was back in the sky, retracing his steps as the floating landmass crumbled and disintegrated beneath his feet. They won’t be there, they won’t wait, he had thought. They shouldn’t wait, not after what he’d done. But there they were. Would they have survived if not for him? Would _she_ have survived? He shook his head and steeled himself. He’d worked hard to place his emotions under the headsman’s axe, acting as his own judge jury and executioner for the sham trial in his mind. He wasn’t about to start reviving his altruistic side.

"I'll do it," he said, confident that with Tripp’s knowledge of the caves, and the added support of his inept, but space absorbing men, he could finally hold Oborozuki in something other than his imagination. “I won't travel with a group,” he added. “I'll meet you in seven days.”

An artificial smile formed on Tripp’s face, an expression that gave Shadow pause. It was unnatural, and conveyed something else. The man looked beyond elderly, he looked weathered, ancient.

"Excellent, it's a deal," Tripp said, standing. Shadow rose and crossed the room, then turned to face Trip.

It's the smile, he thought. Anyone can fake a scowl, conjure tears, feign surprise or distress, but not a smile, not even through a mask. He pressed both hands to the cool metal covering his features, traced the etched vines and blossoms with his fingertips, finally resting on the name chiseled in minute script. Her name. His hands went involuntarily to the locket around his neck, then slipped into an inner pocket. He withdrew a faded brown envelope, and not for the first time since the destruction of the world, he had the urge to open it. He paused, returned the envelope to its spot, and pushed his way through the rabble to the exit. 

Shadow snapped his finger and Interceptor lunged down the stairs, toppling several bandits on the way, joining him as he strode through the door, a smile on his lips.

Chapter 3

Hushed illumination seeped into the wide central cavern from cracks in the limestone ceiling. It held back the darkness like a tourniquet from the sole tunnel plunging deep into the earth. Water from the surface oozed through the rock, and dropped like liquid glass into pools indistinguishable from the surrounding floor. Shadow took only a moment to run a hand down interceptors’ spine in a calming motion before he passed from the light into darkness.

The passage continued in more or less a straight line, with only small alcoves, and narrow passages winding away into unknown paths. He could see well enough in the dark; better than most, but even his eyes, eyes accustomed to doing a majority of their work in the obscurity of night were soon overwhelmed by the profound absence of light. 

He removed a fire skeen from a pouch around his belt, willed the flames to ignite, and send it flashing across the room into the sidewall of the cave. It shone brightly for a moment, then, like an eager heir at grandma’s bedside, the darkness choked the life from it. It was only after half a dozen more strategically placed skeens, that he was able to see well enough to take in his surroundings.

The medium sized room was empty save for patches of blood red moss that grew in large, curtain-like swathes on the wall, but it was the sudden appearance of blue and green light that outlined a side passage that piqued his interest. Muffled screeches that sounded like nails raking stone walls flowed from the adjacent room. He pocketed the skeens and took inaudible steps toward the strange lights. 

Shadow could walk for days in the forest without making a sound, even in the fall. But here, in the depths of the earth, surrounded by impenetrable darkness he heard a sharp snap under his boot and winced. He ground his teeth and silently cursed himself as he listened.

Nothing. 

The sound from the room halted, meaning whatever was making it knew he was here. The next burst of color revealed what he already suspected. A bone, most likely a tibia, split in half under his boot. The hallway, all the way to the adjoining room was filled with bones. Human, animal, and monster. He swallowed and rubbed the sweat from his hands onto his shirt before continuing.

The smell hit him before his other senses could catch up. It reminded him of rotting beef, sold per slice on the streets of ZoZo, mixed with decaying grass left to molder in a one room metal shed during summer. It was a smell he knew well, a smell he knew to avoid.

Three skeens sped away mere seconds apart. Two slammed into the wall, showering the space with their light. The third landed with a wet slap, followed by the high-pitched scream of an enraged toecutter.

Flames climbed the toecutters segmented body, flaring brightly as the vestigial set of transparent wings vaporized. Next to him, the wall moved, and a triangular head snapped in his direction, followed by a massive sickled arm lined with serrated spines. He sank back into a squat, letting his momentum carry him in a backwards roll. The sound of rushing air overhead and the fact that his head was still on his shoulders signaled the creatures narrow miss. 

The creature hissed, pivoted into the hallway, and brought its second blade down in a high arc. Shadow rolled and the appendage slammed into to stone floor hard enough to stick. No time was wasted. Shadow bolted to his feet, assassins’ blade in hand.

Shifting its weight, the toecutter tried to wrench the entrapped limb from the floor at the exact moment the blade whispered through the stale air, neatly severing the limb above the elbow

No longer attached to its hook, the monster’s violent jerks caused the beast to topple backwards under its own weight. Though unable to speak, the rage in monsters’ blood chilling screech needed no translator. It lifted its head to glare at the puny being who dared wound it just in time to see its own severed hook fly through the air and cut the stringy neck holding its massive triangular head in place.

Thin legs jerked a final time before going lifeless. A warm appreciation filled the assassin’s chest for his murderous companion as he watched interceptor tear the throat from the charred thrashing body of the second beast.

Blue light blossomed in the dim room, then red. He was close enough now to feel the fluctuations between extreme cold and heat, to see the jets of ice and fire spilling from the mouth of the 5 headed beast.

Staked all 5 heads? Shadow smiled behind his mask. Just another fishing story from an old man.

4 heads. Eagle, bore, lion and dragon, danced and snapped at the remaining toecutters, while the stump of the fifth glistened with fresh blood. He wondered how many of Tripp’s men died to take that 1 head.

A pitiful moan spilled from each head in unison, like a performing quartet of the damned. Shadow turned his back to the grizzly scene, and thought only of the sword to block out the screams of the suffering animal. Only the sword mattered. Nature would take its course, and besides, mercy didn’t pay, nor would it get him any closer to vengeance, to the debt owed to him, to the payment he would extract. They would pay. The madman in his tower would pay for what he did to the world. For killing them, for killing her.

Then? He questioned himself. Another wail of pain cut through the gloom. 

Then he himself would pay. Everything costs, he thought. Everyone's indebted in some way, even if that someone is the figure peering back at you in the mirror.

"Interceptor come." Shadow took another step then stopped. A baleful whimper joined the discordant howl of the Gorgimera. Interceptor paced back and forth, stopped to look at Shadow, then resumed pacing and whimpering.

"Interceptor come!" He said with added emphasis, but the dog continued to pace. Sighing he said, "fine, but you're on your ow-"

Before the last sound escaped his lips, the dog shot like a bolt fired from a magitek railgun. The sleek killer landed on the toecutters back, and sank his fangs into the base of its neck. The dog jerked its head violently, and the toecutter fell limp.

Stunned by the swiftness and savagery of the attack, the remaining toecutter paused to assess the new threat. It was all the Gorgimera needed. Brilliant waves of yellow surrounded the eagles head; then, in a blinding flash and an ear-splitting boom, the second toecutter lay next to the first, twitching as residual pulses of electricity arced across its body.

"Happy? Now let's go before that thing decides to eat us too." He began to walk and heard the soft foot falls of interceptor running to catch up, followed closely by the lopsided gate of what he assumed was the lopsided Gorgimera. He turned again.

"Go! Get out of here."

The beast widened all 8 eyes and gurgled deep inside its massive chest. Shadows gaze lingered on the strange blue light behind the beast’s eyes for a moment, then his hand drifted to his blade, ready to spring should the monster decide he was prey, but the Gorgimera sat back on its haunches and looked excitedly from dog to man.

"Go!" He shouted again, waving his hands and advancing a step. The wounded creature lowered its heads, and slinked away with labored footsteps into the darkness. Interceptor whimpered.   
“We can’t trust that thing,” Shadow said defensively, “it’s a wild animal.”

Fire skeens every hundred yards lit the final stretch of tunnel before opening into the thief’s cavern, right where the map said it would be. The trail would be easy to follow for Tripp and his men who bravely volunteered to follow after the tunnels were cleared.

Shadow crouched behind a massive stalagmite to watch a strange blue light seep from the cracks in a heavy iron door. So far nothing moved. No flicker of Gorgimera fire, just a solid, ghastly blue light. He moved without a sound across the bowl-shaped floor, watching and listening for any signs of danger.

There hadn’t been be signs of behemoth activity, and he couldn’t detect any now. They're probably as real as Trips monster slaying stories, he thought.

The iron door swung out with a bone chilling creak. Nothing stirred within, so he moved cautiously into the room, following the trail of hazy blue light to its source. He squinted and adjusted his mask, then, despite the brightness, he widened them again in disbelief.

An Esper. Pale, petite, and seemingly juvenile, hung emaciated on the wall by thick chains. Thin copper tubes crisscrossed and protruded from her diminutive body in several locations. As he approached the light-emitting being, his eyes followed the tubing until it disappeared into the dark corners of the room. Four fire skeens revealed two stone tables, and a wall lined with, bodies?

Shadow shuddered at the sight. Chained along both walls hung bodies in various states of decay. The ones closest the Esper seemed fresh.

He approached one, and leaned in close. Fingernails longer than his blade, and covered in thick layers of dust extended from the victims’ boney hands. “They were alive for a long time before they died,” he said to Interceptor, who was nowhere to be seen. 

"Free me!" The assassin’s blade was unsheathed and gleaming before he completed his turn towards the voice.

He looked from side to side, then to the Esper. Did she speak? He took a tentative step forward, peering at the miniscule form hanging above him. Did I imagine it? A rattle of chains caused him to whirl again. Nothing moved. 

Facing the Esper again, he inched closer until he was directly beneath the child-like woman. Her skin was blue and flecked with brilliant shards of silver. It reminded him of the glacial ice beneath Narshe, or the sun when viewed from beneath calm waters.

He reached out to touch her face, then recoiled when her eyes shot open.

"Free me!" She whispered. He backed away, weapon lifted in anticipation, but the sickly being simply stared at him with hollow eyes.

"Who?" he began. Then he saw it, glittering in the phosphorescent glow of the imprisoned Esper. Behind the stone table in the adjacent room sat Oborozuki on a raised dais. It drew in the light. Absorbed it, hoarded it, refused to release anything but the most delicate threads of pale light the color of moonbeams on a cold winter night.

"Please," the Esper plead, "release me," but Shadow passed her by, transfixed on the blade, on his revenge.

He ignored the possible threats in the darkened room and approached the long sought-after blade with long quick strides. He lifted it, feeling the power, the hum of energy that seemed to coarse through it, as if the creator forced a level 3 lightning spell into each fold of the blue steel.

His elation was cut short at the sound of grinding metal. He turned just in time to watch the light from the connected room disappear behind the closing door. With Oborozuki in hand he rushed the door, and slammed his body against the iron in a futile attempt to force it open.

A deep wheezing laugh came from the other side of the door, and Tripp’s face appeared in the square viewport. Shadow clenched his fist around the hilt of the sword and swore under his breath. He never lost himself like this, never let his guard down. 

“I see you’ve claimed your reward,” Tripp said. Shadow’s nostrils flared, though none but him could have noticed. He bit back his rage, and remained silent. 

Tripp smiled and nodded.

“You have your sword, now you can watch what real power is.” Two of his men helped him onto the stone table, binding his limbs with heavy leather straps. “Now,” he began, but was interrupted by a deep fit of coughing that sent sprays of blood into the air. Instead of continuing his speech, he waved his assistants into action. 

A rusted steam driven piston shook the room as it began to churn. The Esper let out a wail of pain as a substance, either blood or some other life essence, began lighting up the copper tubing in brilliant shades of orange as it slithered from her body towards Tripp. 

The old man grunted and coughed up more blood as he waited for one of the men thread a thick bore needle onto the tube, then into his wrists. Shadow watched in morbid curiosity as the orange glow poured into Tripp’s body. Trip began to shake and strain against his restraints, coughing up blood in violent crimson geysers. He was sure the dried husk of a man would die right there on the table, but to his dissatisfaction the man’s chest continued to rise and fall. The light from the Esper dimmed to nothingness, leaving only the flicker of the skeens and the torches to light the room. 

The straps were loosened and Trip was helped to his feet. He bent at the waist as if to catch his breath, then stood, facing Shadow, and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. Shadow felt his muscles fall limp when before his eyes, the wrinkles on the man’s face smoothed to that of a man half his age. His back straightened, his eyes seemed to grow narrower, more focused, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth and calm with no hint of the malady destroying his lungs.

“I hope you enjoy your reward. Think of it as payment for my men you killed. Though I’m afraid the only blood that will stain its blade will be your own, right before you die of hunger or thirst. I however; will be enjoying my reward year, after year, after year.” And then he knew why the man looked so ancient; he _was_ ancient. He understood why his unconscious mind recoiled at the sight of him, and why the old man, the ancient man, was willing to risk everything to get back here. He also wondered how many victims had been scarified to prefect his little treatment. The thought caused a rage that didn’t fully register as his own in his mind. The door shuddered on its hinges as he slammed his fists onto the flaking iron exterior. 

Trip didn’t flinch or backup; he only grinned, then said, “I’ll be back for the sword in what? Say, three weeks?” He laughed and signaled for his men to secure the Esper and follow, leaving shadow alone in the fading light.

When the lights from the torches disappeared into the corridor, he withdrew his assassin’s blade, and wedged it below the loose hinge pin he’d noticed when attacking the door. With ease he popped the pin from the top, and then from the bottom. In his haste, Trip had forgotten to bar the door.

“Amateur mistake,” he said to Interceptor only to realize his companion was still nowhere to be seen. He shrugged, and grinned under his mask as he imagined the first kill he would make with Oborozuki. The smile quickly vanished when he noticed the second door, heavier than the first with no exposed hinges. 

The air was thick with the dissipating smell of burning fuel mingled with the dank smell of the vault. Shadow pounded on the door, but he knew nobody would come to his rescue, not even interceptor would be here to die with him. Just himself and the sword he had so desperately sought; the sword was supposed to have been the vehicle to defeat his enemies, but in the end, would prove to be the author of his defeat.

Why didn’t I help her? He wondered, though in his mind he didn’t know which “her,” he was referring to, there were so many, too many. He fingered the locket around his neck, patted the sealed letter in his breast pocket, then slumped to the floor, lowering his head between his shoulders. The indescribable joy of holding the sword had already faded, and was replaced by the depressing knowledge that he would be avenging nobody now, not even himself. The distant sound of Trip and his gang faded, and he was left in a total, self-deserved silence.

A faint clink of metal on metal brought him back to his feet and battle ready in the blink of an eye. His normally quiescent heart thudded like the monstrous drums on a Figaran war frigate. He listened again for the noise. It came again, this time he was able to identify it as the rustling of chains. Three more skeens rocketed into the wall, bathing the chained corpses in yellow light. 

The bodies hung limply, betraying no signs of life or movement. He approached the first body; skeleton more like, and poked it with the end of his sword. The chain connecting the bodies rattled, but nothing moved. He went down the line, body by body, each progressive corpse becoming fresher as he approached the end. 

A movement, a rattle, quiet, and nearly imperceptible. Shadow cocked his head to the side. Did the body at the far end just twitch? He skipped the last three bodies and stood in front of the corpse.

The prisoner, victim, or whatever it was, looked to have been taken in her prime. Long thin strands of hair still connected loosely to her weathered scalp, and shreds of what may have been a dress still clung to her drooping shoulders. He reached out with his scabbard and gently prodded the lifeless body. 

In an instant the chains grew taut and the woman sprang forward, snapping at his throat with a mouthful of chipped, jagged teeth, and staring at him with angry, red burning eyes. He jumped back, tripping on the uneven floor. He landed hard, but tucked into a roll, and came up in the ready position.

Straining against the restraints, the monster’s muscles and veins bulged and protruded like an overstuffed sausage, it was a wonder they didn’t burst or snap. Thought capable of holding thousands of pounds, the thick chain creaked and moaned under the pressure. A wave of shock and awe moved over him; the sheer power of this being was unfathomable. He backed further away until his back hit one of the stone tables. Oborozuki was half way from its sheath when he heard the chain exploded into metallic shards. 

The crazed woman, monster, woman monster, shot across the room in a blur, leaving him no time to draw his blade, no time to do anything but act on instinct. He leapt into a lateral roll, narrowly missing the human bullet that slammed face first into the stone table. Instead of the life ending crunch of soft skull on the immovable stone he was expecting, the thing crashed through the table, splitting it like a burning axe through a stunned Flan, and continued half an inch into the cave wall. 

Again, Shadow couldn’t help but feel impressed by the sheer power of the beast. He shook himself as the stunned, maniacal mutant turned her red eyes onto him again. His eyes darted around the room, he needed to get out of here. His first thought was lock himself into the room he had just exited, but after glancing at the fragments of the stone table, he realized the stupidity of that idea. She would just crash right through the…”

He circled towards the locked iron door, watching the woman as she extracted herself from the rubble. She shrieked when a fire skeen buried itself into her chest, though more from anger than from pain. She charged, red eyes ablaze, teeth snapping. Shadow stood motionless and calm, awaiting the charging monster like a fabled Belmodar fighter from the Sabre Mountains. Oborozuki leapt like a moonbeam made solid from its dark sheath, cutting smoothly through the air in time with Shadows graceful spin. 

The momentum of the now headless monster crashed into the door, sheering it off the hinges and sending it into the hallway. He looked from his sword to the monster, then back to the sword, taking the time to marvel at its beauty and deadliness. It was the perfect killing machine. 

He imagined how it would look plunging deep into the mad man’s chest; up there, high in his tower, then watching his body drift down past the clouds.

But why? The question was his own, but seemed so out of place that he turned from side to side, searching for the owner of such a foolish inquiry.

For revenge, he thought. For an unpaid debt, for…His shoulder slumped. Images of the airship plummeting out of the sky. Images of her, of… He fingered his locket then gripped Oborozuki’s hilt all the harder. 

“It’s for them,” he shouted into the darkness, but the conviction behind his words seemed now as powerful and useful as a slot machine during a battle. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He should feel elated, having found the sword at long last, but he didn’t. The victory felt hollow and meaningless. His fingers loosened and the blade fell to his side. It no longer pulsed with righteous energy, but instead assumed the dull blue hue of the Esper. 

“I can’t do anything for her,” he said. “I don’t need her, I.” The words died from lack of fever in his mouth. She needs you, the blade seemed to hum. Shadow shook his head; he wouldn’t, he couldn’t jeopardize his chance to sever the head of the world’s newest tyrant, not after all he had gone through.

He jammed the judgmental sword into its sheath. Maybe he would come back for the Esper, come back and free her, and take revenge on Tripp for his double cross. That’s what I’ll do, he thought. He moved silently through the darkness, thinking how much the Esper’s pale blue eyes reminded him of…

Chapter 4

“It’s here. It’s back,” said the guardsmen in a shaky voice. 

“Spread out, keep the Esper safe,” Tripp said. But the sound of boots scraping across the stone floor and away into the distance caused the men to move in closer together. 

“It just took Seiver. Its nabbed Ferris too. It’s picking us off, just like last time.” 

“Shut up and keep moving, it’s not the beast it’s that damn assassin, I’m sure of it,” Tripp said in a harsh whisper that stank of uncertainty. The Iron door couldn’t be forced open, and it was magic proof, but he would never underestimate the master assassin, and it was far better than having that beast on their trail again. 

Just then, then clink of heavy arms and armor came rattling down the tunnel, and Tripp’s look of growing terror pulled back into an ugly smile. “I guess we’ll find out. Did you catch it?” Trip shouted to the thick sergeant and his troop of men as they rounded the corner.”

“We did,” he said, “the men only lost half a dozen fingers doing it too.” The sergeant led Interceptor by a thick chain held at arm’s length. The irate dog snapped and frothed with every step. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“Tie him up, and leave him. It will slow whatever is chasing us.” The sergeants face turned pale as he peered into the darkness. 

“What kind of plan is that? He asked. We chased the mutt down just to buy ourselves a few seconds?”

“It was insurance against the ninja,” Tripp spat. The sergeant shrugged and passed the end of the chain to his underling, motioning for him to secure the dog. The man grumbled, and began walking the chain around a thick column of stone, but before he had made a complete revolution a loud clank, followed by a flash of electric light and the smell of burnt flesh, filled the cavern.

Tripp smiled and held a torch above his head. “Unless monsters have taken to throwing lightning skeens, I think you’ve given yourself away. I’ll give you ten seconds to reveal yourself, or I’ll have the seargant here stick a pin in your little pet.” The men laughed nervously, and scanned the room for movement. 

“Let him go.” The entire company snapped their attention and several crossbows the cart carrying the chained Esper. A black figure emerged from behind the makeshift wagon, weapon in hand.

“Ahh, you see,” he said to the frightened guardsmen, not a monster, just…his eyes dropped to the blood streaked across the assassin’s hands and mask. A different kind of monster.” 

“Let him go,” Shadow repeated in a low threating voice. He pointed to a small passageway leading from the main cavern, “and when you do, run that way boy.” 

Tripp and his men looked at each other in confusion. “Right,” Tripp drawled, “see, we’re not going to let the dog go, in fact you’re going to watch us kill him, and then…”

“You’re FREE!” Shadow shouted, interrupting Tripp’s victory speech.

Again, the men looked at each other, and shrugged. “What are you?” Tripp began, then shook his head. “Just kill him.”

“You’re FREE!” he said one last time before flinging himself to the hardstone floor. 

Crossbow bolts and a level one fire spell streaked across the room like comets, most found a home with the sickening squish of punctured flesh. Shadow looked up from where he fell just in time to see the unshackled Esper rise to her full height. The blade in his hand thrummed with an inner light as she rose, and he noticed the absence of the slightest blemish on the blade, though he had used it to hack through the chains during Tripp’s diatribe.

She looked at the arrow shafts protruding form her skin, and with a swift movement of her slender hand across her chest, the shafts clattered to the ground. 

“Stop Her!” Tripp shouted. Before anybody could move, the Esper let out a blast of soundwaves that would have made the banshees of the phantom forest hang their heads in shame and swear a vow of silence. The Esper’s dull blue intensified, engulfing the room with an intensity that even shuttered eyes couldn’t block, and then she was gone.

Shadow’s arms shook as he pushed himself to his knees. This wasn’t part of the plan. The Esper was supposed to hurt them, not him. A surge of regret for his misplaced altruism kicked him in nearly the same spot as the heavy iron boot he glimpsed from the corner of his eye. The blow landed on his chest, and sent him rolling towards the wall of the cave. Breathless, he stared into the three crossbows aimed down at him. 

“You idiot!” Tripp shouted as he stumbled across the room. Shadow smirked; glad that his enemies preferred long winded monologues instead of acting. He would have sent a crossbow bolt through his face already if it was him. “I’m going to,” he hesitated. “You just…Bah,” he cried in frustration. “Tie him up and we’ll watch the beast get him.” 

Rough hands grabbed him by the shirt, then he felt something warm and liquid on his neck. Is this it? He thought. In his mind, getting his throat cut would have been more painful, at least it looked that way when he watched his targets die.

The man gripping him shot upwards and into the darkness beyond. His two companions managed a single step each before massive claws the size of Shadows entire leg burst through their chests in grotesque synchronicity. They too were lifted from their feet and into whatever lurked just beyond the light. 

“It’s here,” he heard one of the guard’s yell before the man vanished. The audible crunch of bone. Several bones. Every bone, made Shadows stomach turn. He watched as the seargant and six of his men charged the area where they thought the beast would be. With a swipe of a massive paw, the 7 men looked as if they had just sprinted through a mithril claw cheese slicer. In less than 20 seconds almost all of Tripp’s men were dead.

The mage and the remaining three guards bolted down a narrow side tunnel, leaving Tripp by himself. A massive shadow moved after the men, deceptively quick for something that size. 

Shadow stood and drew Oborozuki. Tripp stared after the monster for a moment longer, then lowered his hand to his own sword. 

“I think,” he began. Shadow launched forward, tucked into a tight roll, then lunged out with his sword. Tripp only had time to register his unfinished monologue, and the brilliant color of the blade before slumping dead onto the floor.

On the way out, Interceptor stopped to sniff the body, then growled deep in his chest. “That’s why we don’t talk during a fight,” Shadow said, as he stepped over the body. “Let’s get out of here before that thing gets back.”

The impact felt like being hit by a low flying airship. Shadow’s head whiplashed violently, and his body crashed into the cave wall. He tried to rise, but the world was spinning, and his chest felt as if an armored Phunababa was sitting on it, though he was quite certain there weren’t any of those left alive in the world. 

Something moved through the darkness. He felt the ground for his sword, but felt only the cool damp rock. He pushed away the urge to panic, now wasn’t the time. Three fire skeens lit the left side of the cavern. Nothing. He palmed three more skeens, and turned to his right, into two points of angry red eyes.

A bloody hand shot out and grasped him around the neck, lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the wall. The figure stepped into the light. Shadows eyes widened in a brew of shock, disbelief, and horror. It was Tripp. 

Soon, other red points of light emerged from the gloom like demonic fireflies, coming to stand behind Tripp. They should all be dead, he thought.

Shadows mind reeled. The Esper, the stone tables, the chained bodies. The scream. He thought it was a defensive attack, a simple stun so she could escape, but she had transformed them somehow. And what were they now? Slaves? Zombies? Soulless? He didn’t understand.

Interceptor sprung in a mass of muscle and fur, sinking his fangs into the arm of the undead monster. The grip around Shadows neck loosened and he fell to the floor gasping for air. Tripp flicked his arm, sending Interceptor into the far wall, ignoring the torn flesh that now hung in ribbons along his arm.

“And now,” Tripp boomed. A fire skeen hit him between the eyes. Shadow smirked as he scrambled to his feet. He can’t stop from talking even after death. 

Tripp thrashed and swatted the flames blotting out his vision. The flicker from the flaming head bounced off Oborozuki which rested near to where he had fallen. He gripped the sword, then peppered the walls with another half dozen skeens. He chanted a minor fire spell, one that his friends…one the group of mercenaries who had hired him were gracious enough to impart. The fire from the skeens expanded, flooding the room with light. Followed by a single word, “Damn.”

He was surrounded. Tripp, who now bled freely from his forehead; one eye singed beyond repair, and at least twelve of his resurrected crew stood on either side of him. It’s always a pincer attack, he thought with a grumble. 

Oborozuki vibrated with anticipatory excitement; as eager to strike down these creatures as he was. Tripp raised his gnarled hand; a wordless command for the group of undead to attack. Shadow was faster.

The sword sang, cutting through the armor and most of the chest of the first of four monsters behind him. Oborozuki felt alive, willing itself through the hearts, (if the monsters even needed their hearts), of the next two undead. He felt the approval of the blade. Or was it the Esper? Or perhaps he was imaging the whole thing, and he was just lost in the battle lust. 

Before he could dispatch the last monster and break the pincer, Tripp and the others were upon him. He spun, avoiding an open palm swipe that would have parted him with his head, then followed with an unintended slice through the leg of one of his attackers. The sword neatly severed the limb as if made from a phoenix down pillow rather than solid bone. 

Two more zombies fell before one of the guardsmen finally landed a blow to his chest. The immense strength, coupled with his already damaged ribs caused him to stagger and retreat, backing slowly until his back hit the wall. 

To his left, he saw a flash of red light. The mage was back. Thin lips under blazing red eyes chanted a spell, and a ball of flame formed around his fingers. Tripp smiled and edged closer, along with his remaining men. Interceptor lay unmoving against the wall. This is it, he thought. He chided himself for his decision to help the Esper, for having trusted anyone but himself. 

A massive foot, seemingly from nowhere, slammed down atop the mage, which sent a horizontal spray of blood into the walls like an engorged tic smashed with a hammer. Then it was chaos. 

The remaining five undead rushed the beast. It was a behemoth, but immense, and more vicious than any he had seen before. Tripp, however; remained, staring at Shadow with hatred burning in his one good eye. He gripped a thick stalagmite from the base, and snapped it like a child picking a flower, tossing it playfully from hand to hand, then swiped with considerable speed. Shadow leapt back and felt the rush of air pass by. A roar of primal rage issued from the behemoth. Shadow turned to see two of the undead pulling the beasts claws in opposite directions, effectively splitting the creature’s fingers down the middle. The remaining three were nowhere to be seen, but a crunch of bone, and the gleam of chainmail hanging from a tooth explained the rest.

Shadow danced away from another failed swing from the thick stone club. If he could just hold out, he would let the behemoth take care of Tripp while he made his escape. Tripp seemed to come to this realization at the same moment, and a wicked smile formed on his lips. He turned away from shadow, heading straight for Interceptor.

“No!” He shouted. He took two steps, then Tripp turned abruptly, throwing the stone pillar with all his strength. Shadow tried to dodge, and managed to miss being pulverized by the bulk of the projectile, but still caught the edge as it pinwheeled by. The impact knocked him hard to the floor. Blood seeped from a cut on his arm, and he was certain of at least one broken bone. 

Tripp stood over him triumphantly, his face a collage of hate and…emptiness? Perhaps the Esper did steal his soul, he thought, as Tripp stooped to lift an imp sized boulder. Or, he paused to think in the moments before he was crushed into non-existence, maybe she’s only exposing what’s on the inside. The answer didn’t matter, he wouldn’t matter in a few seconds; just long enough to wonder if he would become undead, immortal, cursed to serve his inner desires until some hero hewed him down in some valiant quest to rid the world of monsters.

The impact came, but not on top of shadow. The behemoth, torn and bloody from its fight, collided horns first into Tripp. He didn’t watch to see the result of the goring, but instead, hauled himself to his feet, and hobbled over to Interceptor. 

The dog. His friend, was sitting on his haunches, panting wildly. A wave a relief washed over his mind, though prematurely. Interceptor crouched low, and growled deep in his throat. Shadow knew he was too late. He turned slowly. Behind him stood the behemoth; injured, but still capable of killing him. The talons on one of its hands hung askew. Blood covered its maw and horns. It straightened to a full twelve feet; purple skin stretching over thick muscles, and roared. 

Shadow dropped to one knee, “get out here,” he shouted to Interceptor, but the dog didn’t move. To his surprise the dog didn’t appear aggressive either.

The behemoth roared again, then lowered its head to charge, horns first, exactly as it had done to Tripp.

“Interceptor no!” Shadow shouted. The dog dashed out in front of the beast, causing it to delay its charge for just a moment. It was long enough. 

A much shorter, but equally massive figure burst from the shadows, and rammed the bewildered behemoth with 4 lowered heads. The beast bellowed and clawed the air as it rolled onto its side. The lifeless, carefully hidden heart in Shadows chest swelled with gratitude at the sight of the 4 headed animal, he even shouted words of praise as the lumbering masses engaged one another. 

The Gorgimera placed two front hooves onto the downed behemoth to prevent it from rising. The behemoth opened its mouth to bite at the exposed neck of the boar, but as it did, the eagle head flashed yellow, and discharged a megavolt into its widened jaws. 

Shocked, but not disabled, the behemoth snapped and caught the boar by the throat. It began to shake the head back and forth until its throat tore loose with a sickening rip. Reeling from the pain, the Gorgimera took an involuntary step back, and the behemoth was up and on its feet. Shadow had not been idle. Light as a caladrius’s wing, he was on top of the beast as it rose. Ignoring the pain in his arm, fueled by pure adrenaline, he stabbed down, sending Oborozuki deep into the creature’s neck.

Far from the desired effect of instant death, the monster hit the floor and rolled. Shadow leapt clear to stop from being crushed. He hit the ground running then turned just in time to see four claws tear across his leg. Again, he felt the end had come, and considering the pain he was experiencing, the thought wasn’t unwelcome. But once again, the Gorgimera charged, and delayed the inevitable. 

This time, the behemoth was prepared. It rose up and met the charge head on. The beasts entangled. Claws raked, heads bit, and blood sprayed from dozens of wounds. The behemoth had one of the Gorgimeras legs in its mouth, and was working to tear it free when the lion head bellowed. The remaining three heads glowed simultaneously, and Shadow knew what was coming. He had seen it once before, seen what it had done to the victims. He limped to the narrow passageway in the cave wall, and hoped it would be far enough. 

Heat from the star-flare filled the room even before the spell had finished. A blinding flash of red light, the smell of burnt hair and flesh, and the rapid movement of air, rushing to fill the void was less disturbing than the shrieks of pain and anguish that came from both creatures. 

The light dimmed, but the smell lingered. Shadow waited what seemed to him like days before he finally, painfully, crawled to the entrance to see what had become of the fighters.

Fear unlike anything he had ever known stabbed his mind when he couldn’t see Interceptor, but a soft whimper from behind him set him at ease, his friend was safe. The same couldn’t be said for the beasts in the cavern. A melted mass of slag lay in the middle of the room, bubbling, and belching out putrid rivulets of smoke. It’s over. 

The sword, came the thought. It was still lodged in the spine of the behemoth. A rock skittered across the floor behind him. He spun towards the sound. The passageway was dark and still. “Interceptor?” No response. “Interceptor come.” This time a response came, but not the affectionate lap of a tongue, or the obedient bark of acknowledgment, but an eye. A single red eye.

A bone jarring explosion from behind, followed by an ear-splitting roar and a shower of stone and dust sent Shadow hard to the floor. Impossible, he thought. Lifting his head, he saw the red menacing eye of Tripp stared down at him from a ledge further up the passage, and the red, murderous eyes of… Shadow covered his face as another shower of rock landed on him. When the dust settled, he was able to see the source of the explosions. In front of him, attempting to wedge Its oversized head into the gap, was the behemoth. A behemoth with two enormous red eyes. It emitted a low growl, and scraped its claws against the stone.

Of all the things Shadow could have done at this moment, he laughed. He could hear Tripp’s heavy booted footsteps nearing, while the undead behemoth king snapped and pushed further into the gap. He continued to laugh. I’m going to die in a pincer attack, he thought. 

No rescue this time, and there would be no next time, no revenge. The world would have to sort itself out on its own; he was finished. He wondered briefly if after he died, his eyes would glow red, if he would be damned to walk these caves for untold centuries, a slave to his inner nature. Would he lose his soul like the others?

He wheezed out a cough. I lost that long ago. The thought should have scared him, caused him to plead the universe for his life, but it didn’t. His final act would be what it should have been so many times in his life. He had freed the Esper, given her life, and in return he would pay with his, and this gave him the most elusive of all quarry. Peace.

Trembling fingers withdrew the brown weathered envelope. There would be no time to read the letter, the letter _she_ had written him; the one he lacked the courage to read. He broke the seal and removed the object without looking at it. He knew the contents well. He slid his fingers down the red and white barbs of the phoenix feather; she always included one in her letters. 

The sound of Tripp’s boots stopped behind him, no doubt savoring the killing blow. The enraged behemoth king was nearly through, close enough he could hear the sizzling of hairs on its charred skin. 

He was finished. He smiled. Not finished yet. He could rid the world of one, just one more monster before he left.

Tripp cackled and lunged; the behemoth growled and slammed its massive maw into the opening in a final push. Shadow raised the phoenix down, the phoenix down that would restore to the recipient that which it had lost. For the living, life. But for the undead…

Shadows vision went dark. He thought he could hear voices in the distance. Voices long gone. Vanished when he couldn’t save them, when the world was changed forever. If they were still alive, they would live in a world with one less monster. His quest for the sword would provide that much at least. 

A single red light winked out of existence. 


End file.
